Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 29, No. 4, September 1971

“I’ve got news for you, sucker,” he said. “She’ll have her fill of you in six months. But you’ll be easier to get rid of than me. Because she’ll have the money. She can buy your death as casually as she buys a new hat.”

“Shut up!” This time it was Gloria who spoke, her face all twisted with hate.

Brad Stockwell ignored her, the words tumbling from his throbbing mouth like broken teeth. “Did you think your resembling me was a coincidence, Stanley? Don’t you know you were hand-picked? She needed an expert swimmer, someone with my general height and build. Now tell me, Stanley. Tell me how this whole accidental drowning scene was your idea.”

“You bastard!” Gloria shrieked. She was on her feet now, her lovely body as rigid as death.

Even Stanley Teal’s face had lost some of its deep tan. “It looks like you want it the hard way, Stock-well!”

Stockwell watched the big hand raise and shrank back against the couch. He’d shaken Teal up enough to make him careless. He’d have one shot. Just one. It would have to be good.

As Stanley Teal stepped forward, his hand sweeping toward his face, Stockwell stabbed out with his right foot. He felt a wet spray of spittle as the toe of his shoe sank into Teal’s groin, jarring the gun from his trunks. Teal dropped the hypo, and staggered like a drunk, his face sculptured in pain.

Brad Stockwell was off the sofa like a shot, hurtling his one hundred and seventy pounds at Gloria. He hit her with a shoulder block. The impact sent her spinning back like a paper doll caught in a draft. Her head made an ugy sound as it struck the oak paneled wall. She collapsed into a silent heap.

Brad Stockwell didn’t look at her. He had only one thought now. The .22. He’d hoped the kick would put Teal out of commission long enough to work his hands loose. But Teal was a tough one. He’d sagged to his knees, clawing at his groin, his eyes glazed, uncomprehending.

But in a moment Stockwell knew he’d recover enough to pounce on him. Not enough time to get loose. But if he could get the .22...

He backed against the table, his fingers feeling for the gun. Teal was already shaking his head, shoving himself groggily to his feet. Stockwell leaned back further, his fingers probing, probing. He knew Teal couldn’t see the gun behind him and prayed he’d forgotten it was there. That might buy him a few more seconds.

But time had run out. Stanley Teal was on his feet now, his eyes blazing with hate. His voice rasped in a hoarse, deadly whisper, “I’m going to kill you, Stockwell! Slow, with my hands, where it won’t show! Then, when you’re begging me to end it, I’ll feed you to the fish!”

Stockwell watched Stanley Teal’s big hands flex, the thick fingers stretching, curling, stretching. Suddenly, he felt something cold and metallic. The .22! The fingers of his right hand fumbled at the handle. The gun made a slight scraping noise against the table. Stockwell saw Teal’s eyes question the sound for a second.

It gave him the chance to grip the gun firmly and point it directly behind him. Then Teal’s black eyebrows smashed together. A second later he was lunging at him, a terrible expression on his face.

But Stockwell was already turning, squeezing off the rounds as fast as possible as his body pivoted. By raking the target, he hoped one bullet would connect. The room seemed to erupt with sound that hammered cry between explosions, but a second at his ears. He thought he heard a later Teal’s body smashed against his back, knocking the gun from his hand. Stockwell’s head struck the edge of the table as he pitched face down on the floor.

He lay there for seconds — minutes — he didn’t know. Waves of intense pain swirled inside his head, his vision blurred by a red mist. Slowly the mist parted and the pain in his head subsided into a steady throbbing. He made a feeble effort to move but it was no use. He could feel Teal’s weight on top of him now, pinning him to the floor.

Okay, Stanley Teal, he thought dully. Your turn. Get it over. Had my try.

But nothing happened. The weight on top of him neither moved nor made a sound. Then Stockwell understood.

It was dead weight!

The headlights of the Thunderbird swept along the dual highway, colliding briefly against the sign that glowed out the words, “San Francisco, 60 Miles.” Stockwell’s foot eased on the accelerator and he watched the speedometer needle sink from ninety to seventy. He kept it at a steady seventy.

Some of the tension began to drain from his body for the first time since he’d left that cabin. It had only taken a few minutes to work his hands loose. Stanley Teal was finished. He’d caught two of the slugs, one in the chest, the other in the stomach. But Gloria was just unconscious. She lay crumpled against the wall like a discarded doll.

He’d knelt beside her, his fingers slipping around the neck. He could feel the jugular vein pulsing against his thumbs.